Chicken Little
by faberino
Summary: "I've got these dreams, they come out of nowhere, but I know that they're real. They're about the world drowning in its own filth, about the sky and all its satellites and moons falling down and bludgeoning the oceans until they swarm up." AU


**Author's Note:** Inspired again by a remix from A Softer World.

There is no story that starts exactly at the beginning. Not really. Every diary, every short story, needs a background, otherwise it won't make sense. Everything begins _in medias res_.

That's what my shrink tells me, anyway.

So that's why I'm starting this stupid journal telling you, whoever decides to read this piece of shit, that I called my psychiatrist up and told her the sky was falling. She was silent a minute and then she said _what_, and I wanted to drop the phone or hang up or something. But she went on, _makes you think that?_

See, I've got these dreams, they come out of nowhere, but I know that they're real. They're about the world drowning in its own filth, about the sky and all its satellites and moons falling down and bludgeoning the oceans until they swarm up around our skyscrapers and drown us all.

There's a lot of drowning in my dreams. I don't swim much.

_I had another dream_.

They always start out the same, too. Same Jimmy John's that's three miles away from my house, same TV screen, and then I look out the window and the skies are a blood red and water is gurgling up from the sewage.

_The same one?_ There was rustling on her end of the line, like she was looking for paper. She writes down everything I say. It's terrifying to know she's got, like, all my delusions and psychoses down in one little notebook. A summary of Kendall Knight's biggest freak-outs.

_Yeah. It's gonna happen, doc, you know it is._ No one but my shrink believes me. I _know_ the sky will fall, it's just a matter of when. Mom never believed me, covered Katie's ears when I would tell her the things that would happen. _You know I'm right._

She hummed. _Was he there?_

At that Jimmy John's, I order the same sandwich, the number two, from the same guy, at the same time every Thursday. I like to watch his hands when he makes it. Mostly what I like, though, is his smile. The human mouth has an astounding number of teeth, you know, and most days I just really want to touch every one with my tongue. I don't think he knows.

I shrugged, even though she couldn't see it. I twisted the phone cord around my finger. Mom was still asleep, even at noon, and I didn't want to talk any longer or louder than I had to. _I don't know what to do._

More rustling from her side. _Go get a sandwich._ She hung up and I tucked the phone into its cradle. It was Wednesday. I can't break patterns. It makes the dreams worse.

But today is Thursday, and it's 3:13 pm, and I'm standing in front of the Jimmy John's, waiting for the numbers on my phone to turn to 3:14. I can see him in there, his back's toward me. He has a nice back. The numbers finally change and I push the door open.

All of my dreams start this way, like I said. But this guy, whose plastic name tag reads Logan, never turns around, and that's when I look at the TV, and after that we all start swimming. But like I said, Logan turns around and all of his teeth are there. _Hey Kindle!_ He says it like that, because he's from Texas. (No, doc, I don't think I'm psychic now, too; he told me.) _The usual?_

I nod. I can't not watch his hands. They're well-taken care of, but not overly so; he bites his nails. He rings me up and smiles at me, and I think, as always, about what it'd be like to wake up in the morning and smell his bad breath. It's pretty fucking domesticated and corny, but it doesn't stop me from saying, _Wanna go out some time?_

Sexuality, at the end of the world, really means nothing. The world is crashing down and everyone is sputtering on water, so what does it matter if I am a boy and he is too? Only people who believe that keeping up with the sanctity of the Joneses really matters will having anything to say, but honestly, to hell with them – they're still drowning, aren't they?

His eyes are wide, but he takes it in stride. _I get off in two hours, come back then?_

I have only ever come into this Jimmy John's at 3:14 pm on Thursdays for the past seven months. I've left at different times, sometimes when Logan gets off, most times not. We talk a lot, which is how he knows about my little sister getting accepted to a prep school while I'm flunking out of comm co, and how I know he's from Texas and that he's working at Jimmy John's to pay off his college loans.

_I'll be here._ He has the best smile. I don't end up leaving, but I do go to the bathroom to call Kelly.

_Is the sky falling again?_ There's gruff angry yelling about how rude it is to answer the phone when she's got a patient.

_Not anymore._ The shouting gets closer and all I hear is a deluge of _fuck you kid I know it's you stop calling_ and I laugh. _I'll let you get back to Gustavo_.

She just clicks the phone off.

I'm writing all this after everything happened, obviously. Logan is asleep on my bed. We haven't had sex, but it's 5:43, Friday morning. I am afraid to sleep, in case I have one of my dreams again.

I'm not gonna talk about love. There are other Thursdays for that.


End file.
